


Through war and death, our love goes on

by ForErusSake



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ardor in August, Canonical Character Death, Court Politics, Fall of Gondolin, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11687982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForErusSake/pseuds/ForErusSake
Summary: No one ever returns from war unscathed. Every warrior will tell you that. For the Lords of Gondolin, this is just as true as for everyone else. Through all the pain and heartache, Ecthelion of the Fountain and Glorfindel of the Golden Flower have found that there is one thing in the world that will never change, that will never be broken. Their love for each other. Through the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the Fall of Gondolin, it is this knowledge that gives them the strength to keep fighting. Through war and death, their love goes on.





	Through war and death, our love goes on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marchwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marchwriter/gifts).



> Dear fellow writer,  
> I have to admit that I was terrified when I signed up for this exchange. I had never done anything like it and I was so scared I would not be able to reach the minimum wordcount of 1200, or not be able to write anything at all. (My hands are shaking like crazy as I'm typing this.) Somehow, though, this turned into an 8.5k monstrosity.  
> It ended up being a bit different from the way I usually write. It has a lot more dialogue than I'm used to writing, and fewer despciptions.  
> I decided to rate T, because it ended up being a lot heavier than I originally intended, but my rating skills are shit and I have no idea what I am doing.  
> Anyways, I hope you'll like it, I really hope you won't hate it.  
> Happy Ardor in August (or September by the time you read this ;))!  
> 

 

No one ever returns from war unscathed. Every warrior will tell you that.

It is most noticeable in the young, those who have only ever fought their companions on the training grounds, who have never fought a real battle, against a real enemy. For them, that first battle changes everything. The first kill, the first victory, the first time they see a friend die in front of them, it changes them forever. Their first battle means the loss of their innocence, the loss of who they used to be.

For seasoned warriors it is different. But even so, every new battle still changes them just a little. They have already got blood on their hands, have already felt the hollowness of a victory, celebrated without the friends they have lost, they have already lost their innocence. They have been shattered to pieces by their own first battle and have rebuilt themselves from the ground up.

Stronger, braver, _better._

But beneath it all, they are still broken, and every battle they fight reminds them that once upon a time, they weren’t.

The Nirnaeth Arnoediad was a first battle for many. For the Lords of Gondolin it was nothing new, but that did not make it any less horrible.

When Turgon announced that the forces of Gondolin would be marching into battle, there were a lot of mixed feelings among the Lords. Anger, confusion, disbelief.

Glorfindel, too, had mixed feelings about the whole thing. He was glad. Turgon was finally listening to them. This would be the end of their self-imposed imprisonment. But the announcement also left him with a feeling of dread, when he thought of the countless innocent lives that would be lost.

He had expected Ecthelion to feel the same. When the Lords of Gondolin assembled in council the day after the King had made the announcement, he found out that he had been wrong.

Ecthelion was furious.

 

“Have you gone insane!” Ecthelion snapped, banging his fist on the table. “What were you thinking?”

Glorfindel looked at him in surprise. Turgon’s expression was unreadable.

“Ecthelion,” Turgon said, “remember who you are speaking to.” His voice sounded calm, but there was a hint of steal to it.

“Our people are not ready for battle,” Ecthelion continued, standing up.

“You and Lord Glorfindel have been training new recruits, have you not?” the King enquired.

“Yes,” the Lord of the House of the Fountain snarled, “that’s exactly it. We’ve been training _new_ recruits, children, who haven’t fought any battles before. They are not ready!” his blue eyes were blazing.

“Then make sure they are!” Turgon roared, standing up from his seat at the head of the table, glaring daggers at the Lord of the Fountain.

Glorfindel had known Ecthelion for a long time, but he couldn’t remember ever having seen him this angry before. He was veritably shaking in fury, his face contorted into a snarl.

“You should have at least consulted us before making this decision,” Ecthelion said between clenched teeth. It was a sentiment Glorfindel understood very well. It was not only the lives of his own warriors Turgon was putting on the line, but the lives of those from the other Houses as well. And he had not even deigned to warn their Lords of his decision, instead going behind their backs and announcing it in a public statement.

“I am your King, I do not need to ask for your permission,” Turgon snarled.

“Damn right you do!” Ecthelion snapped. Turgon straightened his robes and sat down.

“Lord Glorfindel, would you be so kind as to escort Lord Ecthelion to his own residence? I am not expecting him to show up for dinner tonight. You, however, I do expect to be there. And be on time, we have a lot to discuss.”

Glorfindel recognized an order when he heard one. He stood and walked over to where Ecthelion was still standing. He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Come,” he said.

“But…” Ecthelion tried to respond.

“Ecthelion, please, do not make this any worse than it already is,” Glorfindel whispered.

Ecthelion sighed. He looked up at the King once more. Turgon’s expression was neutral, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. They always did. _You lose_ , they said. In the end, they always lost.

Politics in Gondolin was never about changing the King’s mind. It was about keeping him distracted, long enough to subtly put in your own ideas and opinions, or already have your own project up and running, so he couldn’t complain about it.

He turned around and meekly followed Glorfindel out of the room.

 

They didn’t talk on the way to Ecthelion’s estate. Glorfindel knew they were being followed. He was sure Ecthelion was aware of the elf who had been trailing him for the past week, too. The thought that Turgon apparently didn’t trust him to carry out his orders, left him feeling slightly unnerved. Then again, the King was becoming more paranoid every year.

Ecthelion’s estate lay in the upper-northwest district of the city, as did all the homes of the members of the House of the Fountain. Every House had its own district, and every district had its own, distinct architectural style. Glorfindel liked the Fountain district, with its small alleys and broad canals, small boats gliding gracefully across the water, and round squares with beautifully crafted fountains. There was a constant sense of peace and tranquillity to the place that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the city, except for maybe in the district of the House of the Tree.

 

If the servants were surprised that their Lord was back from the King’s council so early, they didn’t show it. Glorfindel’s presence did not surprise them in the least, for Ecthelion and he spent as much time at each other’s estate as at their own. Glorfindel followed the Lord of the Fountain up the stairs and into the large sitting room and closed the door behind him.

 

“He had no right to go behind our backs like that!” Ecthelion growled, as he started pacing around the room.

“He had every right Ecthelion, and you know it,” Glorfindel responded, a wry smile on his face, and he sat down on the couch.

“You agree with him?” Ecthelion asked, his irate expression morphing into one of hurt and confusion.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Glorfindel said.

“Why now though?” Ecthelion demanded, his frustration obvious in the way he pulled on his hair. “We’ve been trying to get him to bring an end to the closing off of our people for over a century. Why is he suddenly all concerned about the world outside of our ‘gilded cage’ now? I just don’t understand!” Glorfindel shrugged.

“I don’t know, Maeglin didn’t seem all too surprised,” he commented, “then again, Maeglin always seems know what Turgon is up to.” Ecthelion raised an eyebrow at him.

“I know you don’t like him, but Maeglin is on our side, he never liked the idea of hiding the city from Morgoth either,” he remarked.

“I know, and I like him well enough,” Glorfindel said, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I just don’t trust him to guard my back when we’ll be out on the battlefield.” Ecthelion snorted.

“So do you trust me, or do you just like me?” he enquired, finally stopping his relentless pacing.

“I like your pretty face, and I trust your wits and your blade, what else is there to trust?” Glorfindel responded, looking up at his friend, who was still standing in the same spot.

“So you think I’m pretty?” he asked, an amused smile on his face, as he slowly made his way to where Glorfindel was sitting.

“You look decent enough. The diamonds and sapphires set in your expensive jewellery do a great job at hiding your imperfections,” Glorfindel quipped.

“That’s rich, coming from the elf who refuses to leave his house without putting at least a tonne of golden ornaments in his hair,” Ecthelion responded, “now move over or I’m going to sit on you.”

Glorfindel chuckled, and moved so Ecthelion could sit down next to him.

Ecthelion sighed.

“I still don’t understand why Turgon suddenly wants to join the battle against Morgoth, though” he said, becoming more sombre.

“I don’t know, maybe he knows something that we don’t, maybe he’s found hope again,” Glorfindel responded, and shrugged.

“No, Turgon hasn’t been hopeful in a long time, not since Elenwë died,” Ecthelion said, bitterness seeping into his voice, “he is paranoid, desperate, afraid.” Glorfindel grimaced.

“Paranoid, yes, quite,” he muttered, “he’s set a spy on me, and I’m supposed to be one of his most trusted advisors. You could call that paranoid.” His friend combed a hand through his hair.

“You should punch him for that,” Ecthelion bristled, “but he’d probably lock you up if you did. I wonder if he’s going to set a spy on me now, too.”

Glorfindel chuckled humourlessly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did just that,” the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower said, and he raised an eyebrow, “or he might just send an assassin to kill you in your sleep.” Ecthelion elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop making fun of me, I’m being serious,” the Lord of the House of the Fountain grumbled.

“This is Gondolin, Ecthelion, not some savage mannish tribe,” Glorfindel responded.

“Well, it’s starting to look like one more and more,” Ecthelion snapped, “In the _old_ Gondolin the rich commoners who lavish Turgon with expensive gifts wouldn’t have had more political power than the Lords of the Houses who have been loyal to him for centuries, in the _old_ Gondolin Turgon would have discussed his plans for marching into battle with us, in the _old_ Gondolin he wouldn’t have sent someone to spy on you, and he wouldn’t have ordered you to take me home like a dog on a leash!” Glorfindel grimaced. He knew that his friend was right. The city was changing. Its inhabitants were changing. Everything was changing.

“I’m sure Turgon has a plan, he must have,” he said, but the doubt in his voice was impossible to miss.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Ecthelion responded, “The people of Gondolin have become complacent, lazy, they are not ready for battle, Glorfindel.” Glorfindel sighed.

“No one ever is, Ecthelion,” he muttered, “But Turgon isn’t the only one who is afraid, is he?” Ecthelion bit his lip, and kept silent.

“What are you afraid of, Ecthelion? The forces of the enemy know your name, they fear you. You’re not afraid of death, are you?” he asked, staring at his friend intently.

“No,” Ecthelion responded, and took a shuddering breath, “I’m afraid of surviving. Everything and everyone around us is changing, Glorfindel. I don’t want to change.” Glorfindel sighed.

“Ecthelion…” he started.

“The last time I fought a battle, I barely recognized myself afterwards,” Ecthelion continued.

“Ecthelion,” Glorfindel cut him off, wrapping his arms around his friend, “I don’t care. No matter what happens, no matter how much this battle will change you and me, it will never change the bond between us.” Ecthelion signed, resting his head on Glorfindel’s shoulder, and kept silent. After a while he chuckled, and broke the silence:

“So you think I’m pretty, and you say we’re bonded. Are you going to buy me a ring, then?” he said, and Glorfindel laughed, the darkness in the future, the pain, the blood, and the killing, momentarily forgotten.

No one ever returns from war unscathed. Every warrior will tell you that. War does not discriminate. The young ones it breaks forever, they have nowhere to run from its destruction, but not even the most experienced warriors can escape its ruin.

 

The Nirnaeth Arnoediad did exactly that. It broke everything, it changed everything. The Union of Maedhros was broken, Hithlum overrun, Fingon killed. Those of Gondolin who returned to tell the tale were lucky to have escaped with their lives. Many of them, however, argued that they would rather have died than have to live with the horrible memories of that disastrous battle.

The Nirnaeth Arnoediad was the beginning of the end. The true beginning of Gondolin’s destruction. The decay had started much earlier. The city and its people had been slowly changing for a long time, but the suddenness of change the Nirnaeth brought to the people of Gondolin was like oil on the fire of their own destruction.

 

The hope the people of Gondolin had harboured, that this battle would be the end of Morgoth’s reign, that their friends and loved ones would return victorious, was brutally crushed. The proud mothers who had waved goodbye to their sons and daughters, riding off to their first battle dreaming of great deeds of valour, suddenly weren’t so proud anymore when confronted with the broken husks of their once so boisterous children. The children who had stood by the road, waving goodbye to parents and older siblings riding into battle dreaming of glorious victories, suddenly lost all their enthusiasm when they were told that those parents or siblings wouldn’t be coming back, ever.

 

The people who had remained behind in Gondolin lost their hope when the broken host returned.

The young warriors lost their hope earlier, when the battle started and they realized, too late, that there was nothing even remotely glorious about war.

The older warriors, who had seen many battles before the disastrous Nirnaeth, hadn’t lost their hope, for they had never had any hope to lose.

 

Except for Maeglin, the Lords of Gondolin were among the last group. They returned from the battle just as broken as everyone else. They, too, were afraid to close their eyes, for fear of the horrors that might await them in their dreams. They, too, woke up screaming in the middle of the night. They, too, jumped at every shadow, and shied away from any who would try to comfort them. They had been expecting no less. They had left with the host of Gondolin knowing that they might die a horrible death, and that if they did manage to survive, being alive would be just as horrible. But expecting it didn’t make it any less painful.

 

Glorfindel looked at the Lord of the House of the Fountain and sighed. It was obvious that his friend hadn’t slept. He himself had been able to get maybe an hour of sleep that night, but Ecthelion looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. All the Lords of the Houses looked tired. Galdor slouched in his chair, eyes half-closed. Duilin sat staring off into the distance, entirely unaware of his surroundings. Penlod, whose father had died in the battle, leaving him to lead his father’s House as well as his own, was the only one sitting up straight, but the tension in his shoulders and the way he bit his lip and twitched at every sound showed how close to collapsing he was. Maeglin was good at hiding how tired he was, but he couldn’t hide the way his hands were shaking from exhaustion. Turgon himself, though dressed in formal robes and with the crown of Gondolin on his head, didn’t look much like a king, slumped forward in his high-backed chair with his chin resting on his hand. But none could match the utter exhaustion shown by the Lord of the House of the Fountain.

“The people are defeated, they need a new source of hope, or it will be our undoing,” he said, standing up.

 

Glorfindel looked at his friend in surprise and thought of how grateful he was that Ecthelion was there, alive, if not well. He thought of him standing on the battlefield, covered in blood and gore, not screaming orders at his warriors, as the other Lords did, but putting his silver flute to his lips and playing a simple melody. He remembered staring in awe as the warriors of the House of the Fountain responded to the sound as one, smoothly following the musical order as if they were dancing. He remembered hearing Ecthelion’s captains playing their own melodies and Ecthelion responding, instructing them in their own, exotic sign language. Ecthelion’s flute was as feared by their enemies as his blade. With his sword he brought down countless orcs and goblins, so that the creatures fled when they saw him, but it was his flute that did the real damage.

 

Glorfindel was running. He had seen it happening from across the battlefield. A sudden ambush of orcs from the side, forcing the warriors of the House of the Fountain to retreat. Ecthelion getting cut off from the rest, and, instead of trying to fight his way out, to safety, rushing forward, charging on to higher ground until he was surrounded.

“Ecthelion!” he cried out, cutting down all the enemies who got in his way. His breath hitched and he was sure his heart momentarily stopped beating when his friend suddenly disappeared from view. He pressed on, ignoring the numbing pain from the beating his shield-arm was receiving. His heart was pounding in his ears and his eyes filled up with tears.

“Ecthelion!” he screamed again, rage suddenly flaring in his chest. And then he saw him. Ecthelion cut down three orcs standing in front of him as he came out of a crouched position.

“Cover your ears!” he yelled, as suddenly he hooked his bloodied sword on his belt and raised his flute to his lips.

The music was like a wave, crashing into him, bringing him to his knees and forcing the breath from his lungs. He dropped his sword to the ground, and raised his hands to cover his ears. All around him, orcs and elves alike were brought to a staggering halt, dropping their weapons, collapsing to the ground. But while the elves were silent, the orcs screamed in terror, clutching their heads, clawing at their own throats, as their eyes bulged and boiling blood poured from their noses.

When it stopped he instinctively grabbed his sword and jumped to his feet, ready to slay any orc still standing, and found that there were none. He looked up in time to see Ecthelion staggering and then collapsing.

He was running again, crossing the last short distance to where his friend was lying, lifeless, on the muddy, blood covered ground. He dropped to his knees and gathered him in his arms. His eyes went wide when he saw the gaping hole in Ecthelion’s armour, and he pressed his hand to the wound in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. Then, two of Ecthelion’s soldiers were there with a stretcher, and they helped him lift their Lord onto it, hoping they could bring him to a healer quick enough to save him.

When Ecthelion awoke, days later, Glorfindel threw his arms around him and wept. He couldn’t remember ever having been so glad.

“Do you hate me so much, that you would weep to see me alive?” Ecthelion joked, but his voice was weak, and his smile even weaker. Glorfindel knew at that moment that his friend had changed.

“Don’t ever do that again, do you hear me!” he cried out, voice shaking from emotion. He himself had changed, too. But the bond between them hadn’t changed, and that was all that mattered.

 

“I’m not letting them go,” Turgon said.

“Do you want a repeat of what happened to Aredhel?” Ecthelion growled. Turgon rose to his feet in anger, and Maeglin winced. “Because that is what _will_ happen if you keep them here. Those people who have asked you if they can leave the city have nothing left here anymore. They are disillusioned, miserable and afraid. And do you know what happens when people are afraid? Other people die!”

The King slammed his fist on the table.

“If I let them leave they will reveal our location to Morgoth and people will certainly die,” he snarled, “they are not leaving and that is final!”

Ecthelion snorted.

“You are a paranoid fool, Turgon,” he muttered.

“Get out!” the king snapped.

“I’m not leaving,” Ecthelion responded, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

“Glorfindel, take him home,” Turgon said, his voice cold and unwavering.

Glorfindel walked over to Ecthelion, grabbed his arm and led him out of the room.

They made it to the palace courtyard. There, Ecthelion broke down. Glorfindel gently guided him to sit on the edge of the King’s Fountain, sat down next to him, and wrapped his arms around him.

“Hush,” he whispered, pulling his friend close, “everything will be fine. You know Turgon, he never stays angry.”

Ecthelion clutched at Glorfindel’s robes as tears ran down his cheeks.

“No, it won’t be fine, it will never be fine,” he whispered.

 

Turgon’s anger lasted a week. After that, he happily allowed Ecthelion to join in on council meetings and state dinners again.

“I told you so,” Glorfindel said to his friend, but deep in his heart, he knew that Ecthelion was right. Gondolin had changed too much, was still changing, too fast. It would never be fine. He could only hope that _they_ would be.

 

 

No one ever returns from war unscathed. Every warrior will tell you that. War can take many different forms. It kills, it breaks, it breaks by killing. But not all wars are physical. Sometimes it is the wars that are invisible, the wars that don’t kill, wars of words and clever schemes, of plot and counterplot, that are the most frightening. It is these invisible wars, fought at council tables and in backrooms by clever people with sharp wits and even sharper tongues, that determine the future of the commoners. In wars of swords and shields, every warrior knows that if they make a mistake, they die. But those wars are not won or lost by a single person. An individual mistake means the death of an individual, but not the death of a whole army. However, the warriors who fight the invisible, council table wars, cannot make such mistakes, for to make a mistake, means the death of a city.

 

“Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider,” Tuor pleaded, as he did at every council meeting, his frustration obvious.

“I will not,” Turgon responded, “Our city is hidden, no one knows its location, our people are as safe here as anywhere else, safer I dare say.”

Glorfindel looked around the room, gauging the reactions of the other Lords, and caught Ecthelion’s eye. His friend’s brow was creased in a worried frown.

“Your Majesty, I agree with Tuor…” Ecthelion started, but the King interrupted him.

“I know you do,” he said. His voice was calm, but his exasperation was clearly visible in his eyes. Originally, the Houses had been the only political institutions in the city. Of course, alliances were formed occasionally between the Houses, in order to increase the chances of changing policy to fit their requirements. That was to be expected. When Maeglin came to the city and started gaining support, enough to found his own House, he shook things up a bit. Ecthelion had been the first of the Lords of Gondolin to form an alliance with the House of the Mole, Glorfindel had never bothered. Within a few years, Maeglin’s House had become one of the most powerful of them all, his support becoming a prerequisite to the success of every proposal made to the council. Tuor’s coming to the city had made politics increasingly more challenging, for every motion that got the support of the House of the White Wing was automatically rejected by the House of the Mole, making the need for backroom deals and other sly political tricks even more crucial.

“Your Majesty, the mountains will not protect us forever. With Nargothrond destroyed and Doriath overrun, the Enemy’s main imperative is finding Gondolin,” Ecthelion said, standing up, “Already my scouts have found orcs patrolling the Echoriath, looking for a way in. If the Enemy is not aware of our location yet, it is only a matter of time before he will. And if he does, no, _when_ he does, every single person in this city will die. You are right that the Enemy’s forces will not easily find a way into the city, but when they do, there will be no way out for our people either.”

Glorfindel was surprised by the bitterness in his friend’s voice.  
“The answer is no,” Turgon responded, now clearly angry, but Glorfindel could sense an undertone of fear in his voice, “and that is final. This council is over, you are dismissed.” With those words he stood and left the room. Maeglin stood to follow him, but Glorfindel noticed the look that passed between him and Ecthelion. The Lord of the House of the Fountain looked at the King’s nephew almost pleadingly, but Maeglin looked at him dispassionately and followed the King out of the room. Glorfindel walked over to where his friend was standing and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You are right, and he knows it,” he said to Ecthelion, who gave him a wintry smile.

“Yes,” the Lord of the Fountain responded, “but I still consider him a friend, and I fear I’m losing him over this conflict.” Glorfindel sighed.

“You’ll never lose me,” he said. Ecthelion chuckled.

“You still haven’t bought me that ring,” he quipped, and Glorfindel elbowed him in the ribs.

“If I could pay for one I might consider it, just to make you shut up about it, but Turgon is paying me less than half the amount he used to, these days. I think he’s using the other half to pay the spies who stand guard around my house and follow me around all day,” he muttered.

“I’m flattered,” Ecthelion said, smirking, “why don’t you sell one of those hairpins of yours, that should more than cover the expense.” Glorfindel rolled his eyes and was about to retort, when someone cleared his throat behind them.

 

They had both openly declared their support for Tuor from the beginning. For Ecthelion, that was a difficult thing to do. He had known Maeglin would see it as an act of treason. He had known he would lose a friend. At the same time, Tuor’s coming to the city and the message he brought were a confirmation of what he’d been advocating since the early days of Gondolin’s existence. For Ecthelion, it was a choice between friendship or principle.

Glorfindel only really had one option. Maeglin had never been a friend of his, so supporting Tuor was the logical choice.

Both of them despised politics. They hated everything about it, even though they had become quite good at it. Ecthelion was a natural at debating, he could weave words like Vairë wove her tapestries, and he was a master at forging secret alliances. Court intrigue was his specialty, and backrooms were his natural habitat. That did not mean he was comfortable with it.

They despised politics, and yet, they were perched on the sofa in Ecthelion’s sitting room, each nursing a glass of wine, with Tuor and Idril sitting in armchairs across from them, casually talking about committing high-treason.

“How are we supposed to keep it a secret?” Ecthelion mused, twirling his fingers in his hair, “building a passageway through the Echoriath is going to take a lot of time, not to mention the problem of sneaking the workers around without Turgon finding out.” Glorfindel sighed.

“I don’t know. With Turgon’s spies keeping an eye on me day and night, I don’t think I’ll be able to do much anyway,” he muttered. As far as they knew, there were no spies guarding Ecthelion’s estate, yet, which is why they had agreed to meet there.

“Was Turgon always this…” Tuor started, and shrugged.

“Paranoid?” Ecthelion chimed in, “Not in Valinor, but I was too young to really know him back then. After the Helcaraxë, after Elenwë died, he’s never been the same.” Glorfindel grimaced and put his empty glass down. Idril winced at the mention of her mother.

“The Helcaraxë has left a mark on all of us, no one who survived the crossing was ever the same, not even the children,” she said, looking down at her feet.

 “We left Valinor thinking that everything would be better here,” Glorfindel continued, “and, for a time, it was, but we missed all the signs. We never forgot about the Doom, at least I didn’t, but we missed all the signs and I’m afraid that soon it will be too late.” Ecthelion chuckled humourlessly.

“It is already too late,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, “the Nirnaeth was the beginning. Everything is changing, everything is breaking, and we can’t do anything to stop it.” Glorfindel flinched at the sorrow in his friend’s voice. Tuor grimaced and laid a comforting hand on Idril’s arm, sensing her uneasiness.

“No,” Glorfindel said, and bit his lip, “we can’t stop it, but we must try and salvage what we can.”

Ecthelion covered his face with his hands.

“We can’t change our fates, we are Doomed,” he whispered, and took a deep, shaking breath.

“Yes, we are, but not all the people in the city,” Glorfindel responded, wrapping an arm around his friend. Idril nodded.

“There are innocent children here,” she said, “they don’t deserve to suffer the same fate as their elders, we must at least try to save them.” Ecthelion shook his head.

“There is no way out,” he dejectedly responded.

“That is why we must make one, through the mountains,” Tuor said, standing up from his armchair.

“How? We just discussed it, it’s not possible,” Ecthelion replied.

“We will find a way,” Glorfindel muttered, “like we always do.”

Ecthelion looked at him and then at Tuor and Idril and knew that they would not be persuaded from this course.

“We must try it,” Tuor said.

“For them,” Idril added, standing up and gesturing out of the window, at the city below.

Glorfindel pulled his friend a little closer.

“Ecthelion, will you help us?” he asked, “Will you do it for me?” Ecthelion sighed.

“You know I would do anything for you,” he responded.

“Even fight a war you don’t believe in,” Glorfindel whispered, and smiled softly.

“Maybe you can make me believe?” Ecthelion said, smiling back at his friend, and he finally returned Glorfindel’s embrace.

Nothing could ever come between them. No matter what happened, they would always be there to support each other.

Tuor and Idril looked at them from across the room and they both smiled softly, hoping with whole their hearts that they would all survive what was to come.

 

 

No one ever returns from war unscathed. Every warrior will tell you that.

In war there is no such thing as mercy. It is not just the warriors who are injured and killed. Innocent people always get caught in the crossfire. Innocent people whose only crime was trying to live their lives in peace.

In war there is no such thing as a true victory, for every victory is celebrated with the knowledge that hundreds, thousands of people, innocent people, had to die to achieve it.

In war there is no such thing as glory. To call war glorious would be an injustice to the people whose lives it has ripped apart, not by any choice of their own, but simply because they happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

 

Gondolin long since had its destruction coming.

There had never been any doubt in the minds of its Lords that one day, Morgoth would find them. Even Turgon, for all his arrogance and obstinacy, had seen it coming, though he was too bitter and afraid to realize it until it was too late.

Gondolin was Doomed the day Turgon laid the city’s first stone on Amon Gwareth in the hidden valley of Tumladen. It had only been a matter of time.

Hidden behind the Echoriath, the city thrived. The people of Gondolin lived in peace, children were born and grew up unaware of their kin fighting and dying in the war against the Enemy. It was easy, living in prosperity, protected by a mountain range, to forget about the outside world altogether. To forget about the battles they had fought and died in, long before Gondolin was founded. To forget about the Doom hanging over their heads like a sword, ready to cut them down when they least expected it.

 

And cut them down it did.

 

Ecthelion was standing off to the side. He had refrained from participating in the Midsummer Tournament, preferring to watch his recruits compete so he could scold them for their mistakes the next day. Naturally, that meant Glorfindel wouldn’t participate either.

Nonetheless, both were fully armed and armoured, as were all the Lords of the Houses.

If not for the Tournament, none would have survived that day.

 

“Glorfindel,” Ecthelion called out, “have you trained them better this year, or can I expect their technique to be as sloppy as last year?” Glorfindel laughed.

“If I remember correctly, it was one of my people who won the first prize,” he retorted. Ecthelion snorted.

“Only because he tripped Elemmakil, which, by the way, is cheating,” he responded, smiling.

“Cheating?” Glorfindel asked, innocently tilting his head. Ecthelion elbowed him in the ribs.

“Will he be competing this year?” the Lord of the House of the Flower enquired. Ecthelion looked at his friend with a confused expression.

“Elemmakil,” Glorfindel clarified, “will he be competing?” Ecthelion shrugged.

“I think so, I didn’t really bother to look at the lists,” he said, “I only know which of my young recruits will be competing.” He stared across the field, to where the competitors were going through some warm-up sequences.

“Ecthelion,” Glorfindel asked, “are you alright?” he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Ecthelion,” he raised his voice a little, pulling his friend out of his reverie.

“Huh?” the Lord of the Fountain reacted, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Glorfindel frowned.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a worried tone in his voice, “You’ve been pensive and withdrawn all day. Something is bothering you.” Ecthelion sighed.

“I’ve been having this nagging feeling of dread all week,” he said, “like something’s trying to warn me. Something is going to happen, something bad.” Glorfindel’s eyes went wide in surprise. He turned to look at his friend.

“When?” he asked, unable to keep the anguish from his voice. Ecthelion looked up at him. His eyes reflected the same feeling of distress that coiled in his own stomach.

“Tonight,” he whispered.

 

When they told the other Lords, Maeglin spoke against them, saying it was ridiculous to call off the Midsummer Festival on a whim. Turgon, who had always trusted Ecthelion’s instincts, looked at his nephew and agreed with him. Glorfindel had never known what people saw in Maeglin.

Turgon was obvious. He looked at his nephew and saw his sister. He looked at him and felt the crushing guilt over her death. He looked at Maeglin and he could not say no to him, he could not turn away the last memory of Aredhel that he had.

Others, he didn’t understand. He supposed he never would.

Except for Salgant, most of the Lords of Gondolin had listened to them and taken their message seriously. Duilin had ordered all his archers to be ready. Penlod had ordered all his warriors, even those who wouldn’t be competing in the Tournament to go armed. Against Turgon’s orders, most of the Houses of the Gondolindrim prepared for war. None however dared to go as far as setting a guard on the Gates. They could get away with the measures they took, in the light of the Tournament, but there was a strict rule in the city that on festival days, all guard post were to be abandoned.

None except Ecthelion and Glorfindel. Tuor insisted he join them, but Ecthelion wouldn’t allow it, saying that he needed to stay close to Idril and Eärendil, to protect them.

So it was just the two of them, standing on the walls in the dark, looking out over the valley of Tumladen.

“Are you sure they’ll come tonight?” Glorfindel asked, his voice soft.

“Yes,” was Ecthelion’s only response as he continued staring into the night.

“I’m sorry,” Glorfindel whispered, and sighed.

“Whatever for?” Ecthelion asked, turning to look at his friend, a confused frown on his fair face.

“For not supporting you,” Glorfindel responded, “for not telling Turgon off for treating us like children, for not helping you when you told me something was wrong with Maeglin, for not protecting you…” Ecthelion chuckled.

“I can protect myself Glorfindel,” he whispered, “I’ve been doing so since my family died on the Helcaraxë.” Glorfindel winced.

“But you are my…” he started.

“Friend,” Ecthelion finished, stepping close to him and wrapping his arms around him.

“Thank you, Glorfindel,” he continued, whispering in his ear, “thank you for being my friend, thank you for trusting me, for loving me for who I am, for always being kind to me when I wasn’t always kind to you. Thank you for everything.”

Glorfindel returned the hug with full force. Somehow, he knew that this was the last time he would hold Ecthelion like this in peace.

“I will always be your friend,” he responded, “no matter what happens tonight, I will always be your friend.”

They stood like that, the wind blowing around them, revelling in each other’s embrace and the sound of laughter and song coming from the city, for quite a while, until Ecthelion pulled back.

They stared out across the valley again, at the gate. Ecthelion was the first to notice the flickering orange light, casting monstrous shadows on the mountains. Then came the sound of thousands of feet, of armour chinking, and monsters roaring. Ecthelion took a deep breath. Glorfindel instinctively grabbed his hand, and squeezed, as if in reassurance.

“Thus it begins,” Ecthelion whispered.

Glorfindel closed his eyes.

 

It was pure chaos. People were running to and fro, panicked expressions on their faces. The Great Gate had been breached, the Enemy’s troops were entering the city. The House of the Mole had turned against them, as had the House of the Harp. There was fire and smoke and blood everywhere.

Ecthelion frantically looked around.

“Where is Turgon, where is the King?” he screamed at a young recruit from the House of the Hammer of Wrath, who looked at him with terror in his eyes.

“H-h-he went to the King’s Square, my lord,” he stammered, “They’re trying to regroup there.” Ecthelion nodded.

“What about the other Lords?” he demanded, looking at the young elf intently.

“Th-the Traitors have fled, L-lord Tuor went after the King’s nephew, I have heard rumours that Salgant is dead. Lord Penlod hasn’t been seen for s-s-some time, we fear the worst. Lords Galdor and Egalmoth are trying to make their way to the King’s Square from the north, I-I-I haven’t heard news of either Lord Duilin or my own lord,” the recruit responded.

“Lord Glorfindel?” Ecthelion demanded.

“L-last time anyone saw him he was with the King,” the young elf stammered.

“Thank you,” Ecthelion said, smiling at him in encouragement, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Everyone, with me, we’re making our way to King’s Square!” he called out.

 

Glorfindel was fighting side by side with Turgon.

“My lord,” he called out, “continue on to the Square!” Turgon spun around, lashing out with his sword and decapitating an orc.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To the walls,” Glorfindel responded. Turgon looked at him with a confused expression.

“Why?” he enquired, his brows knitted together in a frown.

“I have a feeling I am needed there,” Glorfindel answered. The King winced as if he had been slapped.

“Follow your instincts,” he said, “I should have listened to mine, and to you and Ecthelion, and Tuor, and my daughter…” The guilt shining in his eyes was overwhelming.

“Go to the Square, my lord, others will be there,” Glorfindel called out, over the sound of screaming.

“Gondolin is lost, and it is my fault…” Turgon said, voice barely audible. Glorfindel stepped out and beheaded the orc trying to kill his King.

“Go to the Square,” he repeated, more forcefully. Turgon looked at him, and nodded. He turned around and lifted his sword to the sky, for everyone to see.

“Follow me!” he screamed, the fire of rage rekindled in his eyes.

 

When Glorfindel came to the King’s Square, Tuor by his side and Idril, holding Eärendil, close behind, he looked around. His breath hitched as he realized that the people gathered here were the only citizens of Gondolin who were still alive. On his right, by the main gate leading into the square, he spotted Egalmoth. The Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch was ordering people about in a desperate attempt to reinforce the gate against the onslaught of the Enemy’s forces.

“Egalmoth, what news?” Glorfindel called out. His fellow Lord spun around.

“Glorfindel, thank Ulmo, you’re alive!” he cried out, his hand resting on the hilt of his curved sword.

“Salgant, the foul traitor, is dead. Penlod has fallen early on in the battle, protecting the women and children making their way here. Duilin was killed by a balrog, on the walls. Rog hasn’t been seen, we fear the worst, but we couldn’t go out to look for him to confirm his death. The others are here,” he explained, “Where’s Maeglin?” His grip on his sword tightened in anger.

“Dead,” Tuor responded, before Glorfindel could. Egalmoth raised an eyebrow.

“I threw him off the wall,” Tuor explained. Egalmoth narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“Ecthelion?” Glorfindel asked.

“By the Fountain,” the Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch responded, pointing to a figure, sitting on the ground, leaning against the Fountain’s edge, “he’s been injured.”

Glorfindel all but ran across the Square.

“Ecthelion!” he cried out, falling to his knees by his friend’s side. The Lord of the House of the Fountain looked up at him and smiled.

“Glorfindel,” he whispered, “Ulmo’s beard, I thought I’d never see you again.” Glorfindel looked at his friend intently. His eyes fell on his friend’s shield arm, which had clearly been shattered, and then on his right thigh, which was bleeding badly.

“That must hurt,” he muttered, “let’s put you in a more comfortable position.” Ecthelion shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he responded, slightly breathless, “take Tuor, and Idril, and Eärendil, and as many of the people here with you and go.” Glorfindel looked at him in confusion.

“Take the secret passage, save our people,” he continued on.

“You’re coming with us,” Glorfindel said forcefully, but Ecthelion shook his head.

“I can barely walk,” he said, “I would only be holding you back.” Glorfindel huffed in frustration.

“I will carry you,” he responded. His eyes were shining.

“No,” Ecthelion said, his voice unwavering, “If you carry me you can’t fight. You need to protect Eärendil. Now, help me stand.” He extended his good arm for Glorfindel to pull him to his feet.

“I’m not leaving you here!” Glorfindel growled.

“Glorfindel, please,” Ecthelion pleaded, “go, I’m staying here, I’ll cover your retreat, together with Turgon. He will not be leaving the city until all the people who are left have been led to safety.”

The moment he said those words the Square erupted into chaos. The gate was breached. Orcs streamed onto the Square and suddenly he found himself battling several at the same time.

“Help me stand!” Ecthelion growled, and Glorfindel complied, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet.

 

Suddenly, there was fire all around them. People screamed as Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, made his way into the Square. And then, there was a deafening silence, as Tuor stood before him, unwavering, the light of battle shining brightly in his eyes. To Ecthelion’s surprise and horror, Gothmog started laughing. His laughter shook the foundations of King’s Tower.

“Are you willing to die for them, who are not even your own people?” he snarled.

“They _are_ my people. And yes, I would gladly give my life to save them,” Tuor responded, furiously.

“You cannot save them, son of Huor, you will all die here,” Gothmog growled. Suddenly, he lashed out with his whip, striking Tuor in the side. The Man cried out in pain.

 

“Glorfindel, take them, and go!” Ecthelion screamed, sounding desperate.

Glorfindel looked at Tuor, who had fallen to his knees in front of the Lord of Balrogs, and knew what he had to do.

“Egalmoth, Galdor, protect the princess!” he cried out, as he ran to the Lord of the House of the White Wing and pulled him to his feet. “Idril, gather the people, prepare to make your way to the passage!” he continued, as he pulled Tuor, who was trying to catch his breath, out of the balrog’s way. Idril looked at him, nodded, and started issuing orders. Then, he made his way back to where Ecthelion was standing, Tuor following after him.

“Come with me,” he pleaded to his friend, but Ecthelion shook his head. Glorfindel grabbed his shoulders and shook him, heedless of his injuries.

“Ecthelion,” he tried one last time.

“Go,” the Lord of the House of the Fountain whispered, pulling him close for one last, fleeting hug. Glorfindel’s eyes filled up with tears as Ecthelion combed his gloved fingers through his friend’s golden hair. Glorfindel closed his eyes. He barely reacted as he felt Ecthelion lean in and cover his lips with his own. It lasted no longer than a second, and when Glorfindel opened his eyes, Ecthelion had already pulled away, and Glorfindel wasn’t sure it had happened at all.

“Ecthelion,” he whispered. But his friend had already turned around, facing the Lord of Balrogs.

“Tuor, take him with you and go,” The Lord of the House of the Fountain said, voice as unwavering as always, but Glorfindel could hear a hint of fear in his tone.

Suddenly, Tuor grabbed his arm and started dragging him away. Glorfindel heard himself screaming his friend’s name, but then Egalmoth grabbed his other arm and there was nothing he could do but watch, as Ecthelion charged.

He watched as his best friend fought that creature of fire.

He watched as Gothmog lashed out with his fiery whip, knocking Ecthelion’s sword from his hand.

He watched as Ecthelion took a mighty leap, across the King’s Fountain, wrapped his arms and legs around the balrog’s torso, screaming as the creature’s fire burned him alive, and head-butted him in the chest, forcing the spike of his helmet through the balrog’s armour and piercing his heart.

The balrog’s roar was deafening.

For a second, Glorfindel was ecstatic, thinking his friend had won, thinking his friend would survive, but then the creature took a step forward, stumbled and fell.

“Ecthelion!” Glorfindel screamed once more as the creature’s body hit the water of the fountain and set it boiling.

Egalmoth violently pulled on his arm.

“Glorfindel, we have to go!” he screamed, as Tuor, who was pulling on his other arm, screamed something similar.

Tears streamed down his face as they led him away. As they passed the other people, following their princess to the secret passage, he noticed the tears on the other people’s faces. The mothers, softly crying for the loved ones and the homes they had lost, the children, wailing in terror, the warriors, faces blank and eyes wide in shock.

These were the survivors of Gondolin. A broken people, fleeing their broken city.

 _“Save our people,”_ Ecthelion had said.

There wasn’t much left to save, but he would do what he could. He hadn’t been able to protect his friend, but he would protect his people, these innocent people, with everything he had.

 

 

No one ever returns from war unscathed. Every warrior will tell you that.

Glorfindel knew it. Ecthelion had known it. They had fought countless battles and every single one of them had broken them.

Gondolin was doomed to fall from the beginning. The Nirnaeth was the first sign of the city’s impending destruction. Glorfindel and Ecthelion had lived through the entirety of the city’s existence. They had seen Gondolin change. They had seen the people change. They had seen themselves change. Through it all, the only consistency in their lives, the only thing that never changed was their friendship. They could always count on each other. They always had each other’s backs.

 

Idril’s scream snapped Glorfindel’s mind back to the present. Instinctively, he started running. When he reached the front of the procession, his breath hitched. Idril was slowly backing away, Eärendil in her arms, Tuor standing in front of her. Facing them, was a balrog.

 _“Save our people,”_ Ecthelion had said, _“protect Eärendil.”_

He snarled. His eyes shone brightly with the light of battle. He took a deep breath, and he charged.

The world was burning. The heat was unbearable. The smoke filling his lungs made it nearly impossible to breathe. But still, he fought.

If he lost, everything was over. All the people of Gondolin would die. Tuor would die, Idril, Eärendil.

With a bloodcurdling scream he launched himself at the balrog, plunging his sword deep into the creature’s chest.

Time seemed to stand still as he let go of his sword, and the balrog stumbled backwards. The creature took another step to catch himself, but instead of finding solid ground, he stepped into empty air, and fell.

Glorfindel turned around, smiling at Tuor and Idril. He frowned when he saw their eyes widen and Tuor opened his mouth to scream.

He gasped as suddenly he felt a violent jerk on his hair.

He stumbled backwards.

He fell.

 

As the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower fell to his death he didn’t scream.

Instead, he closed his eyes, and he smiled.

As he fell, he felt the fleeting brush of Ecthelion’s lips against his own, he felt his friend’s arms wrapped firmly around him, protecting him.

He had won. _They_ had won.

War had destroyed their lives. It had destroyed their loved ones, destroyed their city, it had destroyed them. But it had not destroyed everything. Tuor, Idril and Eärendil lived, the memory of Gondolin would live on, and, while they themselves were dead, Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s love for each other would go on.

 

 _We have won, Ecthelion, I will see you soon,_ Glorfindel thought.

 

And then everything went black.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I hope you liked it, I hope you didn't hate it.


End file.
